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1897 
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CORN TASSELS 



BY 

WILLIAM REED DUNROY 



DONE INTO PRINT AT 
THE IVY PRESS 
LINCOLN, NEBRASKA 
MDCCCXCVII 



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COPYRIGHT 1897 BY 
WILLIAM REED DUNROY 
LINCOLN NEBRASKA 



TO THE STATE I LOVE 

NEBRASKA 

AND TO HER PEOPLE - 
THESE RHYMES ARE 
DEDICATED - WILLIAM 
REED DUNROY . . 



FOREWORD 

The fugitive rhymes between the covers of this 
book have appeared in such publications as the 
Midland Monthly, Ram's Horn, Pathfinder, 
Youth's Companion, Lotus, Clack-Book, Ish- 
mcelite, Everywhere, Home Monthly, Sigma 
Alpha Epsilon Record, Inter-Ocean, and many 
Nebraska papers. I have found them copied 
widely in papers and periodicals. I have 
gathered together this jumble of moods and 
fancies of the last few years, for the perusal 
of those who care for them 

W. R. D. 



A TABLE OF THE CONTENTS OF 
CORN TASSELS 



Nebrasky, n 

The Rain on My Face, 12 

A Prairie Night, 13-14 

Violets, 14 

Come, Soothing Sleep, 15 

A Westland Song, 16-17-18 

The Pessimist, 18 

Hate Me for a While, 19-20 

I Know a Place, 21 

Today is Best, 22 

Mother's Rag Carpet, 23-24 

Resignation, 25-26 

The Rose in Her Hair, 27 

Unsatisfied, 28-29 

Christ is Walking, 30-31-32 

The Sunflower, 32 

To a Mummy, 33-34 

Blind Man's Buff, 34 

The River Platte, 35-36-37 

Conventionality, 38 

Alone, 39-40 

The Old Unrest, 40 

Adagio, 41 

The Wheel of Fate, 42 

Resurrection, 43 

Than in Nebraska, 44 

I Walked in the Wood, 45 

As I Sat Cowering, 46 

Experience, 47 

The Days, 48 

To Live is Enough, 49-50 

Lococo, 51-52 



Prairie Pictures, Dawn, 53; 
Noon, 54; Night, 55 
What is Love, 56 
Wind of the West, 57-58-59 
A Prairie View, 59 
A Corn Lullaby, 60-61 
God's Heart, 61 
One of these Days, 62-63 
The Sweetest Music, 64-65 
Life, 65 

To a Skeleton, 66-67 
The Land of Corn, 68-69 
Palmistry, 69 

The Veil of Distance, 70-71-72 
The Years, 72 
The Use of it All, 73 
A Prayer, 74 
We'll Meet Again, 75-76 
Purple Asters, 76 
Our Father, 77-78 
Night, 79-80-81 
A Love Lyric, 82 
Le Roi Est Mort, Vive le Roi, 
83-84-85 
Nelia, 85 

A Place of Peace, 86 
Dead Leaves, 87 
Rest, 88 

Antonio Maceo, 89-90 
Toil, 90 

The Way of the World, 91 
My Guest, 92 



A Kodak, 93 

The Modern Poem, 94 

Marguerites, 95 

The Poster Girl, 96 

Life's Circles, 97 

The Crazy Quilt, 98-99 

All is Good, 100-101-102 

Lines to L. A. Sherman, 102 

A Prairie Lullaby, 103 

Mystery, 104 

On the Fan, 105-106 

A Wreath, O Years, 107 

Frost Fancies, 108-109 

A Gray Day, 110-111 

The Dance, in 

Nebraska in Autumn, 112 

Pansies from Colorado, 

113-114 



Pansies, 114 

Little Sunshine, 115-116 

A Queer Race, 117-118 

The Prairies, 119 

The South Wind, 120 

Hunting the Eggs, 121-122 

The Two Ways, 

123-124-125-126 
The Young Violinist, 127-128 
Lillian, 128 

The S. A. E. Boys, 129-130 
A Nebraska Hero, 131-132 
It Must Be True, 133 
A Complaint, 134 
The Shadow Service, 135 
The Dance is Done, 136 



Is love but a spider's thread 

That one rude blast may sever? 

Nay, 'tis a cable, iron-strong 

God-wrought, to last forever. 



NEBRASKY 

ZL WIDE, wide stretch of level land 

With here an' thar a town, 
An' broad flat rivers, sluggishly 
An' slowly flowin' down — 
An' that's Nebrasky. 

A coverin' of th' bluest sky, 

That smiles, an' smiles, an' smiles, 
An' lovin' winds, that bend th' grass, 

Fur miles, an' miles, an' miles — 
An' that's Nebrasky. 

Great fields of emerald bladed corn, 

That swishes in th' breeze; 
An' here an' thar, are little clumps, 

Of supple wilier trees — 
An' that's Nebrasky. 

To Eugene O. Mayfield. 



THE RAIN ON MY FACE 

f^\ THE rain on my face in the night, 

And the wind's strong arras about me, 
A tempest of rage and grief within, 
The tempest and storm without me. 

O the rain on my face in the night, 
And the stars all blotted and hidden, 

The great black scowling sky o'er head 
And the earth by wild winds ridden. 

O the rain on my face in the night, 
And a light in the window before me, 

A glimmer of hope in the murky dark, 
That sheds its soft beams o'er me. 

O the rain on my face in the night, 
And love's dear arms about me, 

My head on the breast of one I love 
And the tempest and storm without me. 



A PRAIRIE NIGHT 

TH E sun has set. Across the prairies creep 
Deep shadows, dark forerunners of the 
night. 
The burning West fades out to ashen gray; 
The smiling day frowns into austere night; 
A solemn brooding hush bends o'er the earth, 
O'er farm and prairie land. One brilliant star 
A pendant jewel hangs amidst the folds 
Of fragrant dark. O night, O prairie night, 
How close thou bendest to the earth, how sweet 
Thy hand upon my head; O mother night 
Thou art the nurse upon whose breast all men 
Lie down to rest. Thy kiss hath power to 

soothe 
The tempest in the heated brain, to quell 
The deep tumultuous storms that wrack the 

heart; 



14 Violets 

The giants Doubt and Care are bound with 

chains 
As soft as silken threads, and stalk no more 
To fright the soul. O night, oh prairie night, 
When sky and earth as lovers meet, I leave 
The haunts of men and seek a spot unmarred 
By sound of human play or pain, and dream 
The dreams that reach to heaven through the 

dark. 



VIOLETS 

\7 IOLETS, violets everywhere, 

Violets in her braided hair, 
At her throat, and O surprise 
Violets in her velvet eyes. 



COME SOOTHING SLEEP 

f~*0 M E soothing sleep, soft sandalled thro' 

the halls 
Of night and drop thy poppy-dews upon 
Mine eyes, and blot the great round world 

from sight; 
Come muffle up mine ears with silence till all 
The grating sounds that mar the day shall hush, 
Give surcease from the carking care that 

haunts 
My brain; strew seeds of dreams 
That soon or late will grow and burst to 

roseate bloom. 
Come healer of all wounds — soother of all pain, 
And bring thy balm for broken hearts. 
O scatter dew upon my fevered brain so full 
Of wild unrest. Come sweet forgetfulness — 
Oblivious silence — transient death, and give 
My troubled soul an hour of peace. 



A WESTLAND SONG 

THEY sing grand songs of the booming sea 
Of its foam-flecked, moon-drawn tides, 

Of its storm-lashed waves, that plunge the 
the reefs; 
Of its calmer moods when slides 

The playful sea on the sallow beach, 
Whereon the seaweed rides. 

They sing of the mountains frowning bold, 

Their awful peaks held high, 
Enfleeced with clouds, their changeless heads 

Relentless piercing the sky; 
In far inaccessible heights and crags 

The eagles wheel and fly. 

But the sea is treacherous, cold, and deep, 
It sends it maddened waves, 



A West land Song 17 

To overwhelm, and its lovers find 

In its deeps their wandering graves, 

And the white ships manned by skeleton crews 
Find ports in mermaid caves. 

And the mountains are wild and full of death, 

They hurl their rocks below, 
And crush the humans who climb along 

Their ribs to reach the snow, 
And shake their angry sides, deep scarred 

Where torrents lunge and flow. 

But sing me a song of the prairies wide, 
That are boundless, wild, and free, 

Where the grasses wave in stormless tides 
And the winds sing loud in glee, 

As over the emerald floors they trip 
In a dance of witchery. 

A flower-jewelled, grass clothed land, 
With never a roof but the sky, 

No shade but the moving shade of the clouds 
Whose gloom soon hurries by, 

No storms save those of the western winds 
That bluster awhile, then die. 



1 8 The Pessimist 

O sing me a song of the westland wild, 
Where the buffalo grave plots lie, 

Where the tramping cattle shake the sod 
And the cranes and curlews fly, 

Where the slinking coyote skulks and scuds 
Through the sage brush gray and dry. 

A song of freedom, of unrestraint, 

Of life, deep, full, and free, 
Of no death lurking seas that moan 

And make my soul grow sad, 
Or mountain heights whose frowning fronts 

Unpitying drive me mad. 



THE PESSIMIST 

|-| E SEES the heavens mirrored in the 

muddy puddle at his feet 
And deems the reach of his dust-blinded eyes 
The whole extent; the feeble beatings of his 

shrivelled, cankered heart, 
To him are echoes of the heart of God. 



HATE ME FOR A WHILE 

[ ' M sick of love, oh hate me for a while, 

Draw thy full lips in two thin lines of 
red, 
And let the smouldering in thine eyes leap 
In flames of fire from thy head. 



Upon thy placid brow let wrinkled lightnings 

play, 

And let a fury snarl thy too smooth hair, 

While o'er thy bosom let blue ropes of blood 

Unlesh deep passion from its sleepy 

lair. 



Thy sea-shell nails, so pearly pink and white, 
Must purple, and thy fingers clinch and 

claw, 



20 Hate Me for a While 

Like tiger fingers when a vandal steals her 
cubs 
And leaves her feverish breasts un- 
sucked and raw. 



Attune thy lisping tongue to harsher sounds, 
And hiss my name between thy click- 
ing teeth, 

Beyond the bounds of reason let thy rage 

Volcanic-like, untrammel from beneath. 

I'm sick of love, oh hate me for a while, 

And spurn me, cowering at thy furious 
feet, 
For when the rage is spent, and calm returns 
Our love will be ten thousand times 
more sweet. 



I KNOW A PLACE 

[ KNOW a place where violets blow, 

Where ferns and grasses freen and grow, 
Where the big white lilies lightly rest 
Their waxy bowls on the river's breast. 

I know a place where the soft waves beat 
Like the sound of a kiss at the violet's feet; 
Where the sun by day, and the moon by night, 
Weaves tangled webs of changeful light. 

I know a place where the thrushes nest, 
Where the breezes rock the birds to rest, 
Where the nightingale conies at night to sing 
In the twisted loop of the grape-vine swing. 

I know a place where a fallen tree 
Lies close where the ferns and violets be, 
And over it stretches a roof of leaves 
The glossy green of the oak tree weaves. 

I know a place — ah, 'tis a lone retreat 
Where love, and the birds, and I may meet, 
And drift and dream o'er far away seas 
To the water's murmuring melodies. 



TODAY IS BEST 

TODAY is best, the past is dead and gone, 
Its joys and sorrows are but dreams, 

But idle fantasies we may as well 

Forget; they are but threadbare themes 

Too childish for this day; too crude 

To mingle with our present schemes. 

Today is best, beyond our mortal ken 

The future all too dimly lies; 
Tomorrow with its hoped-for roseate dawn 

May never flush upon our eyes; 
Our blazing sun may now be hurrying down 

The west, to never more arise. 

Today is best, 'tis close at hand, its skies 

Bend o'er us as a lover might, 
We feel no dread uncertainty — we know — 

And feel — and are — no fear nor fright 
Of what has been, or what may come — we hold 

Today our own — tis ours — till night. 



MOTHER'S RAG CARPET 

VEW ma)' talk of your carpets so fine, 

Made of velvets, an' brussels, 'an sich, 

With ther fine fancy shadin's and hues, 
An' ther patturns so purty an' rich, 

That jest shows ther fine costly weavin' 
Through every richly wove stitch, 



But fur me, I'd fur rather hev, 

That strip of old carpet, as laid 

On th' old kitchen floor, long ago, 

Th' carpet thet mother hed made 

From th' rags she sewed in th' evenin's 

While us childrun run roun' her and play'd. 



Fur I know every stripe as is in it, 
I could tell yew a story, thet run 

Jest like a thread clear through it, 

From beginnin' till all of its done, 

A story of smiles an' sum sorrers, 

Of shadders, an' spots of bright sun. 



24 Mother's Rag Carpet 

Thar was fust, a small piece of her dress, 
Of th' one she hed made when she wed, 

An' th' one that's next to it's made 

Of a dress of her sister's thet's dead, 

An' thar close by is a stripe of 
Th' very fust trousers I hed. 

Thar's a stripe of father's old shirt, 
An' it's mixed with old army blue 

An' here an' thar — yes I am sure 

Are spots of red blood shinin' through; 

An' away down thar in th' corner 

Is a piece of th' red white an' blue. 

Thet carpet is made out of rags, 

Out of rags, jest rags an' no more, 

But th' warp is a warp of dear memories, 
An' I'd rather hev it here on th' floor 

Than all of th' brussels an' velvets 

Yew could bring through that big open 
door. 



RESIGNATION 

\\/ HEN across the rose-strewn path that we 
had hoped to tread, 

Some rude, unlooked-for barrier lifts its wall, 
From out our heavy grief we are wont to weave 

For the whole wide world a sable pall. 

When on our brows the thorns of disappoint- 
ment press 

And circumstances drive us in a stony path, 
We rail against the world and scoff at hope, 

And blame high heaven in our fretful wrath. 

But though the disappointments come and 

smarting thorns, 
And all our hopes lie as a broken wreck, 

Yet must we learn that in the sorrow of this 
world 
One heart's sorrow is but a tiny fleck. 



26 Resignation 

For there have been, since first the human 
heart 
Began to beat its own soft muffled knell, 
Great sorrows that have reached to heaven 
itself, 
And down to the very gates of hopeless hell. 

But only one amidst the multitude has died 
Because His sorrow burst His human heart, 

And He it was who on the blood stained cross 
Tore death's black veil of gloom apart. 

And so when sorrow lays a heavy hand upon 
your head 
And circumstances lash you with a scourge 
of pain, 
Know that your lot is but the common lot of 
men, 
A part of the world's great solemn alto strain. 



THE ROSE IN HER HAIR 

THERE'S a scarlet rose in my lady's hair 

And her gown is silken white, 
On her cheek there's a delicate rosy glow 
Like the birth of a ruddy light. 

There's a pale white rose in my lady's hair 
And her gown is leaden white, 

Her cheeks are pale and her slender hands 
Are clasped together tight. 

There's a phantom rose in my lady's hair, 
And her gown is misty white, 

I see her no more in all the world, 
Save in my dreams at night. 



UNSATISFIED 

f*) N E day I wandered through the mossy 
wood, 

In search of fragrant flowers; 
I found them, wet with dew, and rich with scent, 

Amidst the tangled bowers. 



But I soon grew weary of their lovliness, 

For, high above my head, 
Amidst the crags, I saw a poppy flaunt 

Its crown of wanton red. 



I dropped the paler flowers at my feet, 

My one supreme desire 
Was but to gain the gorgeous painted bloom, 

That glowed with amorous fire. 



Unsatisfied 29 

At last, with hands all scarred, and bruised, 
and torn, 

I grasped the brilliant flower; 
When lo ! its petals fell upon the rocks, 

A scattered useless shower. 

And thus along life's way bright pleasures 
bloom, 
But those that nearest lie 
We scorn; we think that those beyond our 
reach 
Alone will satisfy. 

But when we have them in our eager grasp, 

The pleasures they implied, 
But fade, and mock our deep desires, and we 

Are still unsatisfied. 

To Leonard H. Robbins. 



CHRIST IS WALKING 

I HKIST is walking through our streets, 
Looking in each face He meets: 
Tenderly; 
Not only in the church He stands 
Where suppliants kneel with folded hands, 
Not only in the closet where 
He lifts the load of human care, 
But in the busy haunts of life, 
And in the midst of toil and strife, 

Walks He with His bleeding feet. 
Walks He where the people meet, 
But they scorn Him, pass Him by 
And in their hearts they madly cry 
Crucify ! 

Christ is walking through the shops, 
By each worker meekly stops: 
Patiently; 



Christ is Walking 31 

He would lift the heavy load, 

He would clear the thorny road, 

He would take each sooty hand, 

Smooth the wrinkles from each brow, 

Kiss the wounds, but none allow. 

Walks He with His bleeding feet, 
Walks He where the people meet, 
But they scorn Him, pass Him by, 
And in their hearts they madly cry 
Crucify ! 

Christ is walking through the slums, 

With His cross and thorns He comes: 
Wearily; 

Pleading with the wrecks of men, 

Bidding them take heart again, 

Kneeling in the dens of shame 

Seeing things too vile to name, 

Yet with heart filled full of love 

Bids each sinner look above. 

Walks He with His bleeding feet, 
Walks He where the people meet, 
But they scorn Him, pass Him by, 
And in their hearts they madly cry 
Crucify ! 



32 The Sunflower 

Christ is walking everywhere, 

With His face deep marked with care: 

Painfully; 
But the people turn their eyes, 
Far away toward the skies, 
Knowing not that near them stands 
Christ the Lord with pierced hands, 
Beckoning them toward His breast 
Where all the weary may find rest. 

Walks He with His bleeding feet. 
Walks He where the people meet, 
But they scorn Him, pass Him by 
And in their hearts the3^ madly cry 
Crucify ! 



THE SUjNFLOWER 

T H E sun has photographed upon the fields 
A myriad golden pictures of his face, 

A myriad lesser suns, that wheel and watch 
His glowing course throughout the azure 
space. 



TO A MUMMY 

fHOU crouching figure wrapped 
In silence deep and vast, 

Unseal thy dry, dumb lips, 

And tell me of the past. 

Tell me what lover sighed 

His love-vows in thine ear, 

So fiercely, softly faint, 

That thou alone couldst hear. 

What arms about thy neck 

Were passionately thrown, 

What lips in fervid love 

Were pressed against thine own, 

How beat that heart of thine 

With joy supremely sweet, 

As low thy lover knelt 

In suppliance at thy feet. 



34 Blind Man's Buff 

What were thy joys, thy fears, 

What caused thee smiles or sighs, 

What laughter didst thou have 

What tears bedewed thine eyes? 

Thy lips move not, and yet 

I know thy joy and pain, 

This human heart of mine 

Hath made thy story plain. 



BLIND MAN'S BUFF 



E GROPE blind-folded through the 
dreadful days, 
A slow, continual knell rings muffled in our 

ears, 
The earth beneath our feet deep-scarred by 

myriad graves, 
At last we fall and leave a legacy of empty 

years. 



THE RIVER PLATTE 

THE broad old Platte, with shifting isles of 

shallow sand, 
Enwinds like a silver ribbon blotched with 

spots of gold 
Throughout the grass-paved floors of marshy 

prairie land, 

In summer, low the grasses bend, 
Emerald, tinged with gold, they dip 
And fringe along the marge, and send 
A shadow in the depths, that makes 
A'_boundless dome, beneath the bed, 
Through which the river's waters wend. 

And in the rank tall grass that grows 
Along the bank, the blackbirds build 
Gray nests, and lay, and tender shows 



36 The River Platte 

The pale blue egg against the gray. 
And where the water shallower flows, 
The bittern wades and catches frogs 
Found basking where the sunlight glows. 

On either side the river lie 
Vast fields of emerald nodding corn, 
And waving seas of wheat and rye; 
And in between are willow groves 
And humble homes set high and dry, 
With straw-built sheds and stacks of hay, 
And droves of cattle grazing by. 

Like jewels strewn upon the ground 
The wild flowers shine amidst the green; 
The air is ravished with the sound 
Of bird song. The waters lisp and kiss 
The banks; with murmurings profound 
They pour along toward the sea, 
Through boundless prairies reaching 
round, 

And when the summer on her bed 

Of death lies down, and autumn comes, 



The River Platte 37 

The wild ducks by some instinct led 
From realms of air drop down and swim 
In big black arrows on the spread 
Of waters, till the flock to flight 
Is put, by showers of flying lead. 

Then all the prairies change, behold 
The sun with Midas-touch transforms 
The grass and corn, and fold on fold 
Gay Autumn's garments trail across 
The level lands. The river bold 
With silver, cuts its onward way 
Through fields of amber and of gold. 

In winter sober gray the grass, 
The bird's nests empty, leprous like 
The river, scarred and scaled the mass 
Of ice, wounded here and there 
With bars of sand, and yet like glass 
In places, smooth and clear, the sun 
Reflecting like a shield of brass. 



CONVENTIONALITY 

TH E giant stoops and walks with mincing 
steps 
To suit the pattern custom has decreed, 
While pigmies strive with dwarfish strides 

To ape the fashion of a larger breed; 
For great and small must fit convention's 
mold, 
Must crush the ego, so the world may 
read 
A printed page all lettered with one style of 
type; 
And they who dare the accepted form 
exceed 
Become the laughing stock of mere machines 
Who scoff at all that does not fit their 
creed. 



ALONE 



ALONE in the night when all is dark, 
And the house is hushed and still, 
When a brown leaf blown on your window 
pane 
Sets all your nerves athrill. 

Alone in the night when all is dark, 
And your heart is a lump of clay, 

And your feet are bound, and palid flowers 
Upon your breast decay. 

Alone in the night when all is dark, 
And your bones lie in the ground, 

When the gnawing of worms in your coffin lid 
Is the only ghost of a sound. 



4-0 The Old Unrest 

Alone in the night when all is dark, 

And the caverns that held your eyes 

Are filled with dust and clods of clay 
And your headstone forgotten lies. 



THE OLD UNREST 

C\ H T H E old unrest comes back tonight, 

A vague, sweet, half-forgotten pain, 
With these dead violets in my hands 

And my eyes mist-filled with a hint of 
rain. 

I seem to hear that old mad song, 

That old heart-breaking, passioned strain, 
You sang that night — a memory 

And these dead violets for me remain. 



ADAGIO 

THE coming night has wrapped theGweary 
world 

In a robe of solemn ashen gray, 
And as the light dies out across the sky, 

Take down your violin and play. 

But do not strike a major chord I pray, 
But touch a mystic minor strain, 

To fill my soul with pleasure vague and sweet, 
A pleasure nigh akin to pain. 

Let no strong passion mar the gentle strain, 
But weave a melody of dreams, 

As soft as silence, as sweet as sleep, 

As tender as the moon's pale beams. 

And bring to me dear dead days, 

The days deep buried in my heart, 

And cause from out the misty land of dreams, 
The faces of my dead to start. 



THE WHEEL OF FATE 



THE wheel of fate forever turns its slow, 
relentless round, 

And some cling laughing to its upper sun- 
washed bound, 

While others grovel neath its ponderous weight 
upon the ground. 



But they who laugh must some day feel its 

crushing, ruthless weight 
And take their places writhing on the ground, 

but soon or late, 
The wheel brings uppermost the broken ones, 

for such is fate. 



RESURRECTION 

C~}U T of the soil of discontent, 

Spring lilies of peace with hearts of gold, 
Out of the night of deep despair 

The hope-white wings of dawn unfold. 

Out of the storm and stress of hate, 

The meek-eyed dove of calm is sent, 

Out of our senseless rage and grief 
Is born at last a deep content. 

Out of the wrinkled and withered husk 

The germ of life seeks warmth and light, 

Out of the noisome house of death, 

The soul takes wing for its endless flight. 



THAN IN NEBRASKA 

THERE may be homes as dear, 

But none are dearer, 
There may be skies as clear, 

But none are clearer, 
Than in Nebraska. 

There may be days as rare, 

But none are rarer, 
There may be lands as fair, 

But none are fairer, 
Than in Nebraska. 

There may be skies as blue, 

But none are bluer, 
There may be hearts as true, 
But none are truer, 
Than in Nebraska. 



I WALKED IN THE WOOD 

[ WALKED in the wood one summer day 
And heard a wild bird singing, 

His tender notes through forest glades 
Exultantly were ringing. 

I said in my heart, " That bird must be 

Happy beyond all measure, 
I will seek the bird and take him home, 

He will always give me pleasure." 

But alas ! I found a cruel thorn 

In the breast of the bird was driven, 

And all that wondrous melody 

Was from such anguish given. 

I took the thorn from out his breast, 

But the wild bird's song ceased ringing, 
The thorn in his breast had been the cause 
Of all his tender singing. 



AS I SAT COWERING 

A S I sat cowering in my chamber in the 

dark, 
There came a knocking at my door, 
Loud, loud. 
And some one cried that which I feared to 

hear, 
"She is dead," and all grew black, and I 
forgot. 



I sit and run my fingers through 

Her tawny hair. I press my cheek against 

Her cheek, but feel no answering caress 

Her eyes are dim — the hollow orbs 

Will soon hold crawling worms, 

And in the roses of her lips will creep 

The slimy things. She I loved 

Must mould and mildew to decay. 

Oh, envious death ! Could not you spare 

This one wild flower to me? 



EXPERIENCE 



I'VE held a bauble in my hands, 

One fleeting day, 
To ashes have I seen it turn, 

And blow away. 



I've worn a flower on my breast, 

A budding rose, 
That drooped and died ere time had let 

Its heart unclose. 

Prate not to me of heaven or hell, 

By bitter cost 
I've known their ecstacies and woes — 

I've loved and lost. 



THE DAYS 



THE days like priceless jewels fall 

Into the casket of the past, 
And I with memory's golden key 

Kneel down and lock them sure and fast. 



And when my heart is sad and lone 
I ope the casket's precious lid 

And count the garnered jewels o'er 

And view all things that e'er I did. 

I find some days all crusted o'er, 

With joy's bright jewels, rich and rare, 

And some are black and onyx-like 
With touches of a deep despair. 

But one and all they make for me 

These priceless jewels that I love 

The splendid diadem of hope 

To crown me for the life above. 



TO LIVE IS ENOUGH 

JUST to live is enough — to see the blue- 
domed sky 
Unclouded on a dreamy summer day; 
To view the earth, wrapped in its robe of 
green; 
The changing sea, now blue, now green, 
now gray; 
To see the silver rivers lace the lands; 

The frowning mountains capped with 
gleaming snow; 
The jeweled prairies, shadowless and bright; 
The opalescent dawn, the sunset glow; 
To live and see is enough. 

Just to live is enough — to hear the torrents leap, 
Untrammeled from the overhanging wall; 
To hear the surging and the sobbing sea; 



5<d To Live is Enongh 

The thunders roar, the avalanches fall; 
The twitter of the wren at early morn; 

The sighing of the breeze as the eve grows 
late; 
The peal of laughter from the light of heart; 

The gentle talking of the lover to his 
mate; 
To live and hear is enough; 

Just to live is enough — to smell the rose at 
dawn; 
To feel the rain upon your face at night; 
To brush the dew from hedge and jeweled 
lawn; 
To watch the skylark in its heavenward 
flight; 
To drift and dream upon the river's flow; 

To listen to the cooing of the dove; 
To hold a tender rose-leaf hand in yours; 
To kiss the dewy lips of one you love; 
To live and love is enough, 



LOCOCO 

T O C O C O lives on Lightsome street 
Hard by the fount of laughter, 

His house is built of blocks of fun 
From floor to topmost rafter, 

And by the door a gurgling brook 
The sunshine chases after. 

Lococo sits and suns himself 
The happy hours beguiling, 

No matter when you see the youth 
You'll always find him smiling, 

With tangled sunshine in his hair 
He sits the shades reviling. 

Lococo warbles all day long, 
His songs are so entrancing 



52 Loco co 

That when the children pass that way, 
He sets them all to dancing, 

And when the dashing steeds go by 
He sets them all to prancing. 

Lococo knows no carking care, 

He never knew a trouble, 
He views the world as though it were 

An irridescent bubble, 
Drawn through the air by butterflies 

That fairies harness double. 

Lococo lives on Lightsome street 
Hard by the fount of laughter, 

His house is built of blocks of fun 
From floor to topmost rafter, 

And by the door a gurgling brook 
The sunshine chases after. 



PRAIRIE PICTURES 

DAWN 

T\ AY DAWN, a tender sky, 
Gray; stabbed with rose ; 

Birds, dewy winged that fly, 

A wind, new born that blows. 

A floor of flooded gold, 

Unmarred by shade or gloom, 
Dashed with colors bold 

Of fireweed's gaudy bloom. 

A gray lark on a weed, 

A passionate trill, 
A winged sudden speed, 

Then all is hushed and still. 



54 Prairie Pictures 

The sun above the grass, 

The sky a boundless blue, 

The plain a jeweled mass, 
Diamonded with dew. 



NOON 

High noon, a sky of brass, 

Flaming winds, that fiery run, 

Endless reach of shrivelled grass 
Beneath a burning sun. 

A whitened heap of bones, 

A skull with caverned eyes 

A torpid snake ensconces 
As ghastly white it lies. 

A bird's nest on the ground, 
Two eggs, the sky as blue, 

A stillness, vast, profound, 

Where sleep, on silence grew. 



Prairie Pictures 55 



NIGHT 



Sundown, the shadows creep 
On gloomy prairies gray, 

The night winds lisp and sweep 
And swallows dart away. 



Sod house, grassy, old, 

Doorless, dark, forlorn, 

Glassless windows staring bold 
Like sockets, eyeless torn. 



Lonely mound, cross of wood, 
Crumbling to decay, 

Mute reminder, understood, 
Man has passed this way. 



Silence, shadows, doom and blight, 
Blackness, deep despair, 

Flowerless earth, starless night, 
Boundless, birdless air. 



WHAT IS LOVE 

"T OVE is a crown," the maiden lisped, 

"Whose glittering orb my brow 
adorns." 
The years went by and she cried in grief, 

" 'Tis a crown indeed, but a crown of 
thorns." 

" Love is a solace," the mother cried, 

" To bind up the wounds of broken 
years;" 

But her idol vanished one somber day 
And left a legacy of bitter tears. 

Then what is love? Ah, who may tell? 

'Tis bitter and sweet, 'tis loss and gain, 
A flower with thorns, a laugh with tears, 

A sunlit day with a night of rain. 



WIND OF THE WEST 

W A N D E R I N G wind of the west, 

Come in at my window and be my guest; 
You must be tired, come in and rest, 
Tell me a story of what you have seen 
While flying the earth and sky between 
O'er many a changeful western scene. 

"As down the mountain side I came 
When all the eastern sky aflame 
With dawning fires was, I saw 
The night her gloomy curtains draw 
And hide her stars before the sun 
His glowing circuit had begun. 
I played awhile in an eagle's nest 
And plucked a feather from her breast 
And took it with me down below 
And dropped it in the river's flow. 



58 Wind of the West 

" I darted through a waterfall 

And dashed its spray against the wall; 

I tore a rainbow into shreds 

And from a spider's silken threads 

I made a hammock which I hung 

The fragile mountain flowers among. 

" Across the plains where lonely stand 
The brown sod houses in the sand, 
I idly soared, and through the doors, 
I came and played upon the floors; 
I played on graves where slanting stood 
Plain crosses made of rough pine wood; 
I danced on heaps of whitened bones 
On neshless naked skeletons. 

" I wandered through deserted fields 
Where barren soil by scarcely yields 
The wandering thistle and ugly weeds 
That grow from careless vagrant seeds. 

" I played with ghosts of long ago 

Of Indian and of buffalo. 

I heard the warrior's mournful songs, 



Wind of the West 59 

I heard the tramp of shaggy throngs 
Across the level dusk-bathed plain, 
Then all grew calm and still again. 
And now I nestle in your breast, 
The day is done, I'll stop and rest!" 



A PRAIRIE VIEW 

AFAR, afar in endless levels, 

The prairies reach from my sod-house 
door, 
Afar, the winds hold madcap revels 
Along the grassy, sod-paved floor. 

Beyond the aching eye's deep straining, 

Yet other levels, boundless lie; 
And farther still, is yet remaining, 

A floor which meets the bending sky. 



A CORN LULLABY 

T-I A R K to the summer rain in the corn, 

Hush to sleep my baby! 
As faint as the call of an elfland horn, 

Hush to sleep my baby! 
The winds blow fresh from the rosy west, 
The birdie swings in his little brown nest, 
'Tis time for baby to go to rest; 

Hush to sleep my baby! 

Hark to the crash of the hail in the corn, 

Hush to sleep my baby! 
It leaves the stalks all stript and shorn, 

Hush to sleep my baby! 
The birdie is under the downy breast 
Of the mother-bird, whose beaten crest, 
The hail drives hard, by storm winds pressed; 

Hush to sleep my baby! 



A Corn Lullaby 61 

Hark to the sigh of the wind in the corn, 

Hush to sleep my baby! 
The storm is dead and the calm is born. 

Hush to sleep my baby! 
Now snuggle up close to mother's breast, 
And ride away through dreams in quest 
Of the silent, stormless lands of rest; 

Hush to sleep my baby! 

To my Mother. 



GOD'S HEART 

rZ D ' S heart is like a mother's heart, 
He loves His wayward children best, 

And those who wound Him sorest 

He holds the closest to His breast. 



ONE OF THESE DAYS 

f~\ WE'LL all have plenty to eat and to 
drink, 

One of these days, 
And coins in our pockets to clink and to 
chink, 

One of these days, 
The skies will be blue, and our loves all be 

true, ■ 
And we'll laugh and we'll love the merry year 
through, 

One of these days. 

O we'll all find our Klondikes shining with 
gold, 

One of these days, 
Our hearts all be ravished with blisses untold; 

One of these days, 



One of These Days 63 

We'll sing and we'll dance while merry eyes 

glance, 
And life be as gay as a wedding in France, 
One of these days. 



the clouds will all melt and vanish away, 

One of these days, 
And the sky be as fair as a morning in May, 

One of these days, 
Our hearts will grow light and the world will 

grow bright, 
And all of our sorrows will vanish from sight, 

One of these days. 



O we'll all find a haven of unbroken rest, 

One of these days, 
Have peace and content and an untroubled 
breast, 

One of these days, 
Our strife all be done, our battles all won; 
And we'll all go home at the set of the sun, 

One of these days. 



THE SWEETEST MUSIC 

THERE'S a music in the patter of the rain 
As it drips so gently downward through 
the night, 
Just a soothing, quiet, sleepy, soft refrain, 

A lullaby to put your wakefulness to 
flight. 

There's music in the soughing of the breeze, 
Just a singing hardly louder than a sigh, 

As it lazily goes humming through the trees, 
Fanning coolly on your forehead as you 
lie. 

There's music in the babble of the brook, 

As it ripples brightly onward in its flow, 

Where the ferns and modest violets bend and 
look, 
In the limpid, lisping waters down below. 



The Sweetest Music 65 

There's music in the piping of the thrush, 

Just as sweet as any sound you ever heard, 

And you listen and you wish all else would 
hush 
Save the singing of the russet-coated bird. 

There's music in the cooing of the dove 

As he struts around his nest-mate in the 

shade, 
But the music in the voice of one you love 

Is by far the sweetest music ever made. 



LIFE 

[ I F E is but a tragic tale, 
By countless players told, 

Birth begins it, marriage next, 
Then death — the play is old. 

Laughter and joy to some, 

To others, sorrow and shade, 
Two dates carved on a stone, 
And the play is played. 



TO A SKELETON 

|F I could clothe thy naked bones with flesh 
And give to thee the breath of life once 
more, 
If I could call thy soul from out the vast 
Mysterious realms, where now it roams or 

sleeps, 
I wonder if thou'dst smile or frown at me? 
For who may tell from what lethean calm, 
Or yet what sleep of ravishing dreams, 
I'd waken thee? And if thy lips should break 
The long continued silence of the past, 
And speak to me, I wonder what first word 
Would strike the eager listening of mine ear? 
I wonder if the questions I have asked 
Through many weary years would answered be ? 
If thou wouldst tell me the ones I loved, 
Who left me long ago, were waiting me 
In some fair land beyond the mists and dark, 



To a Skeleton 67 

Or yet were wrapped in some deep sleep that 
Naught should ever break? But O thou 

answerest not; 
Unbroken silence dost thou hold to me 
As though thou hadst a hideous secret locked 
Beyond my longing reach. Though I should 

hang 
Rich gems and gold, and robes of silk and lace 
Upon thine awful form; though I should heap 
A glittering treasure at thy feet, yet thou 
Wouldst never ope thy rigid jaws to speak. 
Away, thou hideous figure, from my sight! 
Thou art a fearful thing that ever stands 
To tell me I at last must stare and grin 
In hideous silence at a questioning world! 

To Edward Maggi. 



THE LAND OF CORN 

CAR inland from the raging sea, 
And its boom and rush and roar, 

There lies a land, wide, wide and green, 
As flat as a dancing floor — 

'Tis Nebraska, the land of corn. 

The sun just seems to love the land, 

For it shines the whole year through, 

And the skies smile down upon her plains, 
Serenely, calm and blue — 

O'er Nebraska, the land of corn. 

And the prairies are clad for many a mile 
With the tossing plumes of corn, 

And the fields of wheat wave like a sea 
Of green, on a summer morn — 
In Nebraska, the land of corn. 



The Land of Corn 69 

A man may wander far way, 

From the old Nebraska home, 

But his heart will long by night and day 
Wherever he dares to roam — 
For Nebraska, the land of corn. 

We love that land with fervent love, 

All we who tread her soil, 
And we pray God's blessing upon the heads 

Of the men who live and toil — 
In Nebraska, the land of corn. 



PALMISTRY 

CHE read the lines in the palm of my hand 
And she read me a cruel fate, 

She read "You will love, but alas! alas! 
Your love will come too late." 

I could"hot see her face, and yet, 
I knew she had read my fate. 



THE VEIL OF DISTANCE 

\%J HEN viewed at closer range, the chasmed 

mountains, bleak and bare, 
Lose all their beauty. Stern, forbidding and 

severe they rise, 
The playgrounds where the gods have tossed 

the boulders, here and yon 
In giant playfulness. But out beneath the 

prairie skies, 
When back we turn to view the towering 

domes, a misty haze, 
A softened tender mist, blots out the wounds, 

and glorifies 
The ancient heavenward lifting peaks. The 

distance weaves a veil 
That hides the scars, revealing naught but 

beauty to our eyes. 

And so it is in life. The rough and jagged 
path takes on 



The Veil of Distance 7 1 

A glory born of time, a haze that hides the 

bitter pain — 
The disappointments once so hard to bear — 

the cross of want — 
The loneliness — the sharpest thorn ingratitude 

— the stain 
Of some great sin — the broken heart — the 

open grave — the scars 
That mar our lives; and back we look from 

out our present plain, 
And see a glory in the years gone by, forget- 
ting that 
Though veiled by distance-woven mists, the 

jagged rocks remain. 

The dull today, monotonous with its petty 
round of cares, 

Its uneventful hours, with its blinding dust of 
little things, 

That dims our vision of the beauties close at 
hand — the clouds 

That hide the vaulted heavens from our faith- 
less view — the stings 

Of scourges made of many tiny knotted cords 
of daily strife — 



72 The Veil of Distance 

These, too, will pass away, and in the light 

that distance brings 
We'll see the present glorified, these level 

desert plains 
Transformed and full abloom, be jeweled with 

eternal springs. 



THE YEARS 

A B I T of sun, a bit of cloud, 

A wreath of flowers, a snowy shroud, 
And the year is done. 

A bit of hope, a bit of fear 
We bring to greet the coming year 
And the year's begun. 



THE USE OF IT ALL 



\%J H A T is the use of it all, 

The anguish, the grief, the strife, 

The struggle with shades, the fight with fate, 
The battle for paltry life? 



What is the use to fight for fame, 

To cringe to ambition's demands, 

And grasp the chaplet of bay at last 
With stiffening, dying hands? 



Is it not enough to have striven and toiled? 

The pursuit is more than the prize, 
To have loved and suffered is much, 

To have lived is more than we realize. 



A PRAYER 

fj H to be drunk with success, 

Just for a day, 
To hear the applause of the whole wide world 

And to feel on my brow the bay; 
And then — to die. 

Oh to be drunk with success, 

With the world at my feet, 
To dance but a moment on the dangerous 
height 
Where gods and mortals meet; 
And then— to die. 

Oh to be drunk with success. 

One hour — one moment — Oh God — 
To live — to suffer — at last be forgot 

As a worm on the sod; 

And then — to die. 



WE'LL MEET AGAIN 

\%J E ' L L meet again, dear heart, fond heart, 

Beneath less ominous skies, 
And then instead of grief I'll see 

A gladness in your eyes; 
Though circumstances now have built 

A barrier grim and high, 
Love tells me we shall meet, and be 

United by and by. 

We'll meet again, dear heart, fond heart, 

Be brave and do not weep; 
The world is vast I know, and far 

I sail the wandering deep, 
But distance cannot lessen love, 

Nor make our vows less sweet, 
As sure as skies bend o'er us love 

Somewhere, sometime, we'll meet. 



76 We'll Meet Again 

We'll meet again, dear heart, fond heart, 

There is no adverse fate, 
However black it looks today 

Our hearts can separate; 
Though seas and deserts stretch between 

And years their rounds complete, 
In after years, somewhere, sometime, 

God means that we shall meet. 



THE PURPLE ASTER 

C~\ N autumn's withered bosom 

There rests but one bright bloom, 

The purple aster alone hath braved 

The frost's white, blighting doom. 

This one small flower, forgot 

By summer, as she went away, 

A small memento in the weedy fields 
To recall a brighter day. 



OUR FATHER 

"C^) ^ ^ Father which art in heaven," 
The little child in perfect trust 

Looks up and prays, her steadfast eye's 

Unflinching gaze into the skies. 

'Tis not because she feels she must 

But gladly asks a boon from One 

Who freely gives both rain and sun. 



"Our Father which art in heaven," 

The careless maiden prays, her lips 
All wreathed in smiles, her heart so gay 
She scarcely knows for what to pray, 

And as life's joys she calmly sips 
She turns her joy-lit eyes on high, 
And prays to God, she knows not why. 



78 Our Father 

"Our Father which art in heaven," 

The woman, bent, and wan, and gray, 

With troubled heart and man5' needs 

Kneels down and with her God she pleads; 
It is the close of life's short day, 

Her weary way is almost o'er 

She prays with childhood's faith once more. 

"Our Father which art in heaven," 

A whisper soft, 'tis but a breath, 
From lips that suddenly grow white 
And cease to move in the silent night, 

There stands the great white angel, 
Death, 
'Tis the end of toil and strife and care 
The soul hath no further need of prayer. 



NIGHT 

P R O M my couch at dead of night I rise, 
and wide 

I throw my window. The shimmery, silvery 
tide 

Of moonshine floods the room with lustrous 
light, 

A glorious gift to me from the hand of peace- 
ful night. 



The shadows of the trees in tremulous out- 
lines fall, 

In phantom pictures on my moonlit chamber 
wall, 

The myriad shadow-leaves with noiseless 
movements slow 

In phantom, breathless breeze blow to and fro. 



8o Night 

Below me lies the city wrapped in soothing 

sleep; 
No sound comes up to mar the silence calm 

and deep; 
The streets resound no more with hurrying 

feet; 
No passersby their fellows warmly greet; 
No laughter rings in merry chimes upon mine 

ear, 
No sound of weeping nor of wrath I hear, 
Soft sleep hath had her unmolested will 
And bade all harsh, discordant sounds be 

still. 



Then Memory, the voiceless singer of the 

night, 
Stands by my side in shimmering robes of 

white, 
With lyre in hand she sings to me of other 

days, 
With hand in mine through bygone paths she 

strays, 
And lo, the night seems peopled with the 

loved ones gone, 



Wight 8 1 

And I no longer stand in the softened light 
alone. 

In the night with God, and memory and silence, 

I feel 
A reverence deep, and solemnly I kneel 
And stretch my hands out through the silvery 

air, 
And lift my soul to heaven in one great silent 

prayer. 
While through the night I seem to see great 

altar stairs 
That reach from earth to heaven — my cares, 
A heavy load, I take, and slowly climb, 
And lay them on the great white altar for a 

time. 



A LOVE LYRIC 

f^\ H that she would deign to speak, 

That her lips might touch my cheek, 
Would it still this wild unrest 
That surges in my breast? 

Oh that her bright eyes would glance, 
Where I wait and long, perchance, 

It might still this wild unrest 

That surges in my breast. 

Oh that her soft hands might press, 
Hand of mine in shy caress, 

Could it still this wild unrest 

That surges in my breast? 

Oh 'twere worth both life and death, 
To feel upon my cheek her breath, 

It would still this wild unrest 

That surges in my breast. 



"LE ROI EST MORT, VIVE LE ROI" 

"THE king is dead, long live the king;" 
With pomp and slow funereal pride 

We march beside the dead old year; 

The portals of the grave yawn wide, 

The crumbling clods of musty clay 

Must soon his lifeless body hide. 

We chant a hymn of fond farewell, 

He's been a friend, this dead old year, 

He brought us sorrow it is true, 

And yet he also brought good cheer, 

And at his passing 'tis but meet 

We turn aside for one swift tear. 

All hail the new, farewell the old, 

The wheels of time turn swift and sure, 
All things are fleeting — God alone 

And hope and love, may aye endure. 



84 "Le Roi est Mort, Vive Le Roi" 

He had his faults, and who has not? 

He gave us bitter with the sweet, 
He spread some roses in our way, 

And sometimes thorns that hurt our feet; 
He gave, and then he took away, 

He's dead — we'll not his faults repeat. 

The midnights and the dawns he gave, 
We'll cherish, nor in haste forget 

The dear experiences he brought, 

We're almost glad he's gone, and yet 

Somehow we feel a tugging at 

Our heartstrings of a fond regret. 



A new king sits upon the throne, 

He holds out gifts in lavish hands, 

Of good and ill, but what for us? 

The riddle, ah! who may understand? 

We hope he'll be as good a king 

As he beside whose grave we stand. 



Farewell and hail, one goes, one comes; 

"The king is dead, long live the king;" 



Nelia 85 

The cradle touches with the grave, 

As life and death must ever spring 

From one great source — our welcome and 
Our funeral hymn, today we sing. 

All hail the new, farewell the old, 

The wheels of time, turn swift and sure, 
All things are fleeting, God alone 

And hope and love, may aye endure. 



NELIA 

r*AMEO faced, with great gray eyes 
Tender and sweet as dawn, 

Wide, wide open, mystery filled, 
As the eyes of a startled fawn. 

Marble browed and crowned with hair 
Black as the starless night, 

With lips like rosebuds pouting red, 
Parted by dazzling white. 



THE PLACE OF PEACE 

fi TRAVELLER searched through many 
weary years for rest, 

In vain he sought, 
In every land beneath the shining blue-domed 
sky 

But found it not. 

At last came Death, in silence touched his 
tired brain 

And brought release. 
Tread softly, for in yonder grassy bed, he 
found 

The place of peace. 



DEAD LEAVES 



HIKL, dead leaves, whirl, 
In your withered waltz of death, 
Whirl to the dirging music piped 
By Autumn's sighing breath. 

Whirl, dead leaves, whirl, 

Dance with the ghostly breeze, 
Over the bare brown earth, 

Under the naked trees. 

Whirl, dead leaves, whirl, 

And drift in a dreary dance, 

Like our own short lives 

Blown here and there by chance. 



REST 

Y mother earth, upon thy fragrant breast 
Tired, I throw myself full length to rest; 
My heart beats close against thy mighty heart, 
The tears long frozen, from my eyelids start; 
The grasses kiss and cool my fevered cheeks, 
And in mine ear the soothing southwind 

speaks, 
And spent at last with the passion and pain 

of life, 
Mine eyelids close, and I forget the strife, 
The struggle, and all my vain complainings 

cease, 
And like a child upon its mother's breast 
Weary with wailing, sink at last to rest, 
Hushed in thy great arms to dreamless peace. 



ANTONIO MACEO 



T\ E A D in the Cuban swamps, his heart 
Pierced through by a traitor's knife, 

On his country's altar he offered up 
The sacrifice of a noble life. 



Dead, and his countrymen yet not free, 
Shall no avenger God-sent arise 

And out of this night of dread defeat 

Set hope's white star in Cuban skies? 



Dead, and his heart-wrung warriors fled, 
And he bound fast in endless sloth; 

But his blood and the soil he loved so well 
Are plighted still in eternal troth. 



go Antonio Maceo 

Dead, and unavenged his kinsmen lie, 

In bloody graves by where they fought, 

And shall this shedding of hero blood 

Be counted vain, a thing of naught? 

Nay, out of this blood-bathed soil will rise 
A dauntless heroism, strong as fate, 

And Maceo's dream be realized, 

Although for him, it comes too late. 



TOIL 

T PRAYED, 

And the winds blew my words hither and 
thither, 
Blew them away, I knew not whither; 
When my prayer was done. 

I toiled, 

And my life was filled with a wonderful 
blessing, 
Sweet peace and content my heart was 
possessing, 
When my toil was done. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 

T N youth his heart beat high with hope, 
With a dashing hand he wrote his rhymes, 

He courted Fame with a winsome smile, 

But she snubbed the youth a thousand 
times. 

In later years, in grief and pain 

He sang to the world his hopes and fears, 
But Fame still held herself aloof 

Nor deigned to heed his prayers and tears. 

Fame came at last when he was old, 
And cried, "To win my favor, thou 

Must write in thine heart's blood thy thought — 
Then will glory wreathe thy brow." 

At last with death-dulled ears he heard 
Too late, the peoples' loud acclaim, 

His blinded eyes saw not the place 

Whereon Fame carved his deathless name. 



MY GUEST 

THERE stood beside my bed last night, 

A grim and ghastly shape, 
With hollow eyes rimmed round with fire 

And heavy lips agape. 

His hands were taloned like a hawk, 

He grasped his livid breast, 
And tore it, and I saw the heart 

Of my blood-freezing guest. 

'Twas black and withered, and it hung 

As heavy as a stone, 
I shrieked with fear, and cowering lay, 

The heart it was my own. 

The gruesome shape passed out the door; 

I awoke and rubbed my eyes, 
And swore a solemn binding oath 

To eat no more mince pies. 



A KODAK 

T-I I S knickerbockers are purple cloth 
With yellow run down each seam, 

His sweater is gorgeous under his coat, 
With stripes of scarlet and cream. 

His stockings are checkered with blue and red 
And turned at the top with care, 

A golf cap of orange, blotched with black 
Surmounts his chrysanthemum hair. 

And doubtless }^ou think him a poster man, 
Built on a Beardsley scheme, 

You're mistaken of course, he's a quarter back 
On a college foot ball team. 



THE MODERN POEM 

H E wrote a poem with intricate rhymes 
With care, it was cunningly wrought, 

Embellished with words of delicate sound 
And filled with ennobling thought. 

But the editor man sent it hurrying home 

With a note of much culture and grace, 

Saying: "Write me a poem just two inches 
long 
I need it to fill some spare space." 

So he wrote a few lines of meaningless rot 

And sent it post-haste through the mail, 

And he found it next month at the foot of a 
page, 
'Twas just the right length for a sale. 



MARGUERITES 

\xl E E marguerite, dainty flow'r 

Delicate an' sweet, 
Liftin' oop your modest head 

Sae near my feet. 

Braw little ray o' sunshine, 

Shinin' i' th' grass, 
Greetin' me \vi' gentle nod 

When I maun pass. 

I like th' rose an' I ween 

Th' violet too, 
But my ain pure marguerite 

I love but you, 

Gin I had my choice o' flow'rs 

T' gie my lady fair 
I gie her pale marguerites 

For her dark hair. 



THE POSTER GIRL 

f KNOW a maid with scarlet hair 

And cheeks of a livid hue, 
Her lips are crimson touched with fire, 

She has vivid eyes of blue. 

Her gown is yellow, barred with tan, 
And 'broidered with red and gray, 

Her sleeves are large like great balloons 
And her shoes are orange and gay. 

She stands on a bank of green and brown, 
'Neath a violet stretch of sky, 

The flowers that spring neath her tiny feet 
Are the queerest I ever did spy. 

She stares at me and I stare at her, 
But she never stirs nor speaks, 

The reason is this — she's a poster maid, 
One of those Beardsley freaks. 



LIFE'S CIRCLES 

A S widening circles in placid waters grow 
And in their outward ripplings meet and 

touch, 
So have the circles of our lives in such 

An outward rippling seemed to meet and flow. 

And as the circles when they once have met 
Seem more and more to grow as one, 

so pray 
The circles of our lives may day by day 

More closely merge till life's last sun is set. 

And when our little circles break at last 

Against the shining sands of heaven's 

beach, 
May then our friendship, bound by no 
small reach, 
In one eternal circle then be cast. 

To C. C. Wescott. 



THE CRAZY QUILT' 

Q RAND MOTHER sits in her rocking 

chair 
Where the sunlight kisses her snowy hair, 
And stitches and sews the whole day long 
And croons to herself a quaint old song. 

The gray old cat lies close by her feet, 
The geraniums bloom in the window seat, 
And up overhead the canary bird swings, 
And chirps and flutters and cheerily sings. 

'Tis a curious thing that grandmother makes, 
And the stitches are queer that she carefully 

takes, 
'Tis a dream of gay colors, of shadow and 

shade, 
A quilt of odd pieces of silk, deftly made. 

There's a piece of a gown brocaded and gay 
That grandmother wore on her wedding day, 



\ 



The Crazy Quilt 99 

And near it a bit of the old fashioned tie 
That grandfather wore in the years gone by. 

There are bits of doll dresses, all faded and 

old, 
And once white ribbons, as yellow as gold, 
There are touches of crepe and violet pale 
That tell but faintly a sorrowful tale. 



There are pieces of dresses the children once 

wore, 
And bits of velvets and satins galore, 
Irregular fragments of ball dresses proud, 
And tiny faint bits of a yellow-white shroud. 



Each piece has a story that grandmother 

knows, 
And she smiles and she sighs as she busily 

sews, 
And sometimes her glasses are dim with her 

tears, 
As she stitches together these fragments of 

years. 



ALL IS GOOD 

THANKS, thanks, for love and life, for all 

they bring, 
For love that shines amidst the shadows like 
The sun, dispelling night and dark. For life 
Swift pulsing through the veins, glad life, full 

life, 
That soars aloft like some grand song among 
The arches of a vast cathedral; yea 
And thanks for death, for peace, for sleep, a 

lull 
An interlude between the sounding throbs 
Of life's great orchestra. 

We pour our thanks 
Like swollen rivers in the spring, for all 
That comes, for every flitting picture limned 
Against the paling or the blushing sky, 
For every song of bird that thrills the dawn 



All is Good 101 

Or soothes the dying day; for every flow'r 
That lifts its painted cup and spills its wine 
Of fragrance on the ravished air. And too 
For every low of cattle on the hills, 
For every cry that stabs the silence with 
A shaft of quivering sound, for every leaf 
That trembled in the breeze and now lies dead 
And brown among the gray old grasses, 

combed 
By harsh November winds. 



For every thought, 
No matter whether bright or dark; for peace 
Or yet for pain, for pleasure or for sting 
Of some great lash of sorrow; all, yea all, 
That made the sum of days that now are past, 
The dear, dead days, safe held in memory's urn 
Amidst the sweet rosemary of regret. 
And for the sordid present, prized the least 
Of all, because so near, we lay our thanks 
Like offerings on an altar. But, 
Far above our gratitude for past 
Or present, rise our thanks for days to come; 
The clouded future, hidden from our eyes 



102 All is Good 

Whose roseate skies, effulgent with the light 
Of one great trembling star of hope, we see 
But in our dreams. 

To Elia W. Peattie. 



LINES TO L. A. SHERMAN 

T N stature small, a Zaccheus in height 

Grave cohtenanced, yet kindly faced withal ; 
A man whose soul shines within his eyes and 

speaks 
Kind things to every one whose need is great. 
In stature small, but giant in his soul 
And intellect, whose gentle Christ-like mind 
Gives not a thought of self or selfish aims, 
But spends itself as freely as the air 
To benefit his needy fellow men. 
In stature small, but, ah! his great white sou 
Uptowers like a mountain peak, bright dashed 
With sunlight — in this murky world he stands 
And sheds reflected rays of God's great love. 



A PRAIRIE LULLABY 

HUSH little baby, lie still and swing, 

Hear the cornleaves softly sing; 
The gopher is down in the cool damp ground 
Under the dome of his freshly made mound, 
The birds are all still, the sun says 'tis noon, 
Hush little baby, sleep will come soon, 
Hush, hush, hush and swing, 
Swish, swish the cornleaves sing, 
Hush, swish, swing. 

Hush little baby lie still and sleep 
The west winds over the cornfields sweep 
The flowers all drowsily hang their heads, 
The cattle stand deep in the marshy beds, 
Even the crickets know it is noon, 
Hush little baby sleep will go soon, 
Hush, hush, hush and swing, 
Swish, swish the cornleaves sing, 
Hush, swish, swing. 



MYSTERY 

I SAW a bird fly through the air, 

From out the sky I know not where 
It swiftly came, and whence it flew, 
I could not tell, nor ever knew. 

I saw an arrow flash through space 
It flew so swift that I could trace 
Its flight but dimly, and 'twas gone, 
From whence to whence, to me unknown. 

And so are we; from whence we come 
Or whither go is dark, the sum 
Of all we know — we are — and lo 
Are not — like shades, we come and go. 

The cradle, then the dreamless bed, 
From dread to grim mysterious dread, 
A darkness calling unto dark 
An arrow shot at an unknown mark. 



ON THE FAN 



[ KNOW the daintiest maiden 
With coils of blue-black hair, 

Pinned high on the top of her head 
With pins and jewels rare. 



She has the fairest complexion 

Like the pink that lines the shell 

That ocean throws on the sand 
When stormy surges swell. 



Her feet are the very smallest 

That peep from under her gown, 

She has curious rings in her ears 
And eyes that are big and brown. 



106 On the Fan 

Her dress is of gauzy fabric 

Airy and fairy and thin, 
As though some dreamer had woven 

His gossamer thought therein. 

She sits there always disdainful 

Her voice I never have heard, 
Eternally gazing forward 

At a great big scarlet bird. 

She treats me so very coldly, 

Although I have known her for years, 
The maid on the Japanese fan 

With curious rings in her ears. 



A WREATH, O YEARS 

RlND me a wreath for my brow, O years, 

But not of flowers alone, 
Bind it of weeds, and grass, and thorns, 

The things that I most have known. 

Give me no passive joy, O years, 

Where my days pass sweetly by, 

Give me the joy to fiercely live 
And let me as fiercely die. 

Give me no unearned glory, O years, 
No swift fading wreath of a day, 

But bind from the dead leaves of my life 
The victor's wreath of bay. 



FROST FANCIES 



THE frost-king came from his home in the 
north, 

And busily while I slept, 
The magic touch of his ice-tipped brush, 

Over my window he swept. 



The wraith-like scenes of his northern home 

In spectral lines he wrought, 
The aerial touch of his cunning hand 

Outlined each subtle thought. 



The crystal caves, where the icy winds, 

In deep recesses hide, 
And feathery pines, and hemlocks tall, 

With branches reaching wide. 



Frost Fancies 109 

And ice-bergs fast in frozen seas, 

And branching reindeer horns, 
And quaint and whimsical elfin gnomes, 

And lions and unicorns. 

And castles white, with gleaming tow'rs, 

And fanciful, fragile walls, 
With loop-holes and ports of curious shapes 

And strange, mysterious halls. 

But the jealous sun, when day had dawned, 
Gazing hard at the frost-king's work, 

Erased with his burning, fiery glance 
Each queer and freakish quirk. 

And castles and trees, and frozen seas 
All vanished, I know not where, 

Like the phantom shapes of my fairest dreams, 
As frail and fleeting as the air. 



A GRAY DAY 



A GRAY day, a gray sky, 

And gray, so gray within my heart; 
The fates have thus decreed 

That thou and I must part. 



The mists creep, the clouds sweep, 

And clouds and mists within my way, 

That hide thee from my sight 
For many a dreary day. 



There's rain near, there's rain here, 

And rain, sad rain within my eyes, 

Because that thou and I 

May meet no more beneath these skies. 



A Gray Day in 

The storms grow, the storms blow, 

And storms, fierce storms within my 
breast 

That surge, and surge, and rise 
And will not come to rest. 

A gray day, a gray sky, 

And mists and rain and storms o'er all, 
For thou from me must part 

And thou art all in all. 



THE DANCE 



F H E western wind with nimble feet 
Trips out a curious dance 

To the music piped by a bobolink 

Perched near on a willow lance. 



NEBRASKA IN AUTUMN 

AMBER fields and amber sky, 

Sun-bathed lands where amber lie, 
Cornfields dipped in amber dye. 

Wind-swept tracts of amber grass, 

Tumbled o'er by tangled mass 

Of tumble weeds, that swiftly pass. 

Amber spikes of golden rod, 

Sun flowers tall, that bend and nod, 

Standing on the amber sod. 

In great arrows, up, up, high, 
Wild geese, wildly, swiftly fly, 
Through the amber autumn sky. 

Amber fields and amber sky, 
Amber all the lands, and dry, 
Where Nebraska's farm lands lie. 



PANSIES FROM COLORADO 

[ OPENED a letter this morning 
And out from its perfumed fold, 
There fell a shower of pansies, 
Of purple and white and gold. 

They came from a far distant country 
Where white crested mountains rise, 

And cast there shadows forever 

Where the sheltering valley lies. 

As I gazed on their dainty colors, 
It seemed that I caught a view 

Of the place where God had painted 
Their petals of varied hue. 

From the sunset, the golden color, 

From the shadows, the purple shade, 

And then from the snows capped mountains, 
The pure white spots were made. 



114 Pansies From Colorado 

I saw in a vision before me 

A scene 'neath far western skies, 

Where God had piled up His glories 
To gladden our wondering eyes. 

To C. F. Bell. 



PANSIES 

PURPLE for shadows, gold for sunshine, 
White for the clouds on high, 

Brown for the earth which gave them birth, 
And blue for the azure sky. 



LITTLE SUNSHINE 



P Y E S like pansies, deep and blue, 
Lilied brows, unmarred by care, 

Cheeks that rival roses new, 

Tangled sunshine in thy hair. 



Silvery voice like chiming bells, 

Rippling laughter, all day long, 

Oh what happiness there dwells 
In the lilting, laughing song! 



Sunshine in a world of night, 

Strayed from heaven's shining strand, 
Making darkest days seem bright, 

Untold joys in thy wee hands. 



1 1 6 Little Sunshine 

Golden hair 'gainst father's gray, 

Tiny arms about his neck, 
Heartsease for the saddest day, 

Harbor for the tossed heart's wreck. 

Blessings on thy sunkissed head, 

Follow thee through the coming years, 

Fortune kiss thy cheeks, rose red, 
Keep thine eyes unused to tears. 

To Little Mistress Alice Lorena Bixby. 



A QUEER RACE 

[ SAW the queerest race today 

Out at the county fair, 
The riders all were tiny tots, 
The racers all were rare. 

I saw a little winsome maid 
With flying yellow hair, 

Hold fast and ride around a ring 
Upon a big brown bear. 

Another one laughed loud in glee 
And raced around the track 

And she was seated fearlessly 
Upon a lion's back. 

And one rode on a tiger fierce, 
Another on a deer, 



n8 A Queer Race 

While others rode on prancing steeds 
Without a sign of fear. 

And round and round the track they rode 

All at a rapid pace, 
And no one beat, tho' all tried hard, 

To win the funny race. 

At last the racers came to rest, 
The music ceased to sound, 

And all the little tots went home 
And left the merry-go-round. 

To Mistress Faith Schwind. 



THE PRAIRIES 

[ LOVE the wide, wide prairies, 
Where the western breezes blow, 

Where amidst the tremulous grasses 
The fragile wild-flowers grow. 

Where the gopher whistles shrilly, 
Beside his fresh made mound, 

Where over the level distance 
The cry of the crane resounds. 

Where the curlew and the plover 

Build their nests on the tufted sod 

And the meadow-lark, upsoaring, 
Sings morning hymns to God. 



THE SOUTH WIND 

COUTH wind, south wind, cease your 

blowing 
Let your hell-blasts cease their glowing, 

Shut your torrid furnace doors. 
See the cornfields seered and blasted, 

Pitifully burned and blasted, 

Writhing in the fiery burning, 
From deep green to yellow turning; 
See the prairies thirsty panting, 
Hot and scorching, hot and panting, 

Shut your torrid furnace doors. 
See the farmers deep dejected, 
All their fields are sad, neglected, 
All their hopes are blasted, blasted, 
By thy hot breath burned and blasted, 

Shut your torrid furnace doors. 
South wind, south wind, cease your blowing 
Let your hell-blasts cease their glowing 

Shut your torrid furnace doors. 



HUNTING THE EGGS 

AWAY up high in the old hay-mow, 

Where the spiders had arched and 
groined with gray 
The underside of the steep old roof, 

I used to climb at the close of day, 
And search high and low for the fresh laid 
eggs 
In the fragrant heaps of new mown hay. 

I climbed the cross beams strong and rough 
And balanced myself for a moment 
there, 
Then leaped far out on the heaps of hay, 

And the rush through the fragrant, dusty 
air 
Made me feel akin to the swallows outside, 
That circled and wheeled through the 
summer air. 



122 Hunting the Eggs 

I searched and found the nesting place 

Of the yellow-legged hens, and in my 
hat 
I put the thin shelled globes of white, 

And down from the mow like a dusty 
rat, 
With my hat in my mouth I backward climbed 
To the floor below with its hay strewn 
mat. 

I'd give the world if I might go 

Back to that dusty hay-mow gray 

And hunt the eggs, and leap and roll, 
And be as happy and free and gay 

As I was in that long past happy time 

When I hunted the eggs in the fragrant 
hay. 



THE TWO WAYS 

TWO ways confront each one who enters 
life, 

The one leads upward to success, 
The ether downward through a devious way 

At last to anguish and distress. 
And every one may choose which way he will, 

May toil and struggle up the steeps, 
Or loiter idly down a flowery path, 

That leads to endless, hopeless deeps. 

The upward way is steep, and hard to climb, 

And he who chooses it must strive 
With great discouragements, his hands must 
grasp 
The jagged rocks, the thorns must drive 
Their bitter points, and bloody foot-prints 
mark 



124 The Two Ways 

His way long the mountain side; 
For he must carve the steps by which he climbs 
With his own hands, or woe betide. 



And up the toilsome journey now and then, 

The clouds may for a moment lift, 
And through the fogs that lower on the way 

The sun may make a tiny rift, 
And it, perchance may be, that some brown 
bird 

May cheer his soul with tender song, 
Or, growing near his feet, a violet, 

May cheer him, as he plods along. 



The flowers of friendship, blooming by the 
way, 
Hold much the homesick heart to cheer, 
The sympathy of fellow travelers on the way, 

Dries many a bitter heart wrung tear. 
The hard pressed journey upward through 
the night 
Is lighted by the starlit eyes of love, 



The Two Ways 125 

And when the goal is reached at last, 'tis 
found, 
God's cloudless skies stretch out above. 



The downward road is easy of descent, 

Its way is paved with idle hours, 
The senses swoon amidst the smothered scent 

Of earth's most fair and rarest flowers, 
The sound of song and laughter fills the air, 

And Music gaily leads the way 
With dancing feet that tread the gleaming 
light, 

For on this road, 'tis always day. 



The birds sing ever in the glittering trees, 

The brooks leap lightly in the sun, 
And never a cloud obscures the azure sky, 

And never a bar of shade may run 
Across the placid waters of the lakes, 

Whose wavelets glow like new pressed 
wine, 
As red as rosy blood of fresh crush grapes 

That grow along the castled Rhine. 



126 The Two Ways 

A siren sings to woo each wayward heart, 

And everything invites to sloth, 
Fair pleasure holds a veil before the eyes, 

And blinded, like a fluttering moth, 
The loiterer seeks kaleidoscopic sweets 

Till youth is fled and night conies on, 
Then wakes to find his life an idle dream, 

A wasted flower, its perfume gone. 

Then choose today, before it is too late, 

While Hope still sings her lusty song, 
The guide posts have been set by noble souls 

As warnings as they passed 'along, 
The pitfalls have been pointed out by they 

Who toiled before us, up the way; 
There is no need that we should fall or fail, 

Two ways confront you, choose, and choose 
today. 

To Mary Wescott. 



THE YOUNG VIOLINIST 

A DREAMER with ear attuned 

To catch the echoes from far away lands; 
The melody of harps soft twanged 
By unseen hands. 

A dreamer, mystery-eyed, 

Moved by passion from within, 

Clasping as a lover might his love, 
Thy violin. 

Thy youth sits lightly on thy head, 

Then whence the passion in thy strains? 

Who taught the life, 

Its ecstasies and pains? 

Does Genius, mad with heavenly fire, 

Like a lover, whisper in thine ear? 

Or what grand melody of whirling worlds, 
Dost hear? 



128 The Young Violinist 

A dreamer with ear attuned 

To catch the melodies our deaf ears 
miss; 
A priestess, interceding between that world 
of dreams 
And this. 

A dreamer, with ear attuned 

To catch the echoes from far away lands, 
The melody of harps soft twanged 

By unseen hands. 

To Miss Silence Dales. 



LILLIAN 

A N aureole of gold above a brow, 

As smooth and fair as the lily's lining; 
Two eyes, serene and deeply, calmly blue; 

The azure of the skies outshining. 
Her cheeks are tinted like the prairie rose, 

Soft penciled by some fairy fingers, 
Her lips are like twin rosebuds dipped in dew 

Where smiles and laughter love to linger. 



THE S. A. E. BOYS 

PlGHT here while you're a talkin' 

Lemme say a word er two, 
An' this one thing I'll promise 

That what I say'll be true — 
Ef you're lookin' fur jolly fellers 

Thet er good clean thru an' thru, 
Why them air S. A. E. fellers 

Er jest th' boys fur you. 



Ther hearts er th' very biggest, 

An' they mean jest what they say, 
They don't treat you good at one time, 

An' then th' very nex' day 
Turn roun' an' treat you shabby, 

But by your side they'll stay, 
Ad' ef you git inter trouble 

They'll see thet you git fair play. 



130 The S. A. E. Boys 

They're not very fond of braggin' 

An' ther words sumtimes er rough, 
But then ther outer actions 

Is only a little bluff, 
Fur down in ther hearts ther tender 

An' good an' righteous enuff, 
They're like a hard old walnut, 

Th' shell alone, bein' tuff. 

Right here while you're a talkin' 

Ef you're lookin' fur a helpful friend, 
One that'll stick close by you 

Even to th' very end, 
An' one thet is alius ready 

You're name an' cause to defend, 
Why one of them S. A. E. fellers, 

Is one in which to depend. 

To Lambda Pi Chapter Sigma Alpha Epsilon. 



A NEBRASKA HERO 

The following editorial appeared in the Omaha World-Herald, 
May 24, 1896: "Herman Fowler, of Ashland, Nebraska, aged n 
years, was drowned in the Wahoo while attempting to rescue a com- 
panion. It is a short and simple story. A little heart touched by the 
sight of a friend's distress, a daring resolve, quickly made, a brave 
effort to save a life, a brief death struggle in a swollen stream — and 
another name added to the list of heroes. ' Foolish to attempt the 
impossible,' the cold and calculating may say, perhaps, and yet the 
scroll of fame would be robbed of many of its brightest ornaments if 
only those deserved a place who stopped to measure the value of the 
effort made. Who gives his life, gives all, whether by his service he 
saves a nation, or, impotent to aid, dies by the side of those whom he 
would help. Herman Fowler did what he could, and did it nobly. 
No historian may record the achievments of his life, no poet may em- 
balm his deeds in lasting song, but he deserves to have inscribed upon 
his tomb the epitaph 'Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay 
down his life for his friends.' " 

"THERE lies a hero" — awestruck the 

gaping throng 
Goes by and hopes to see a warrior knight, 
Clothed in armor, austere of visage, calm and 

cold, 
Wreathed by laurel won by his great might, 
But finds instead a little child, an infant, 
Wreathed about with silken curls, wan and 

white, 



132 The Nebraska Hero 

He lies, held fast in death's calm thrall, 
Yet still a hero by divinest right. 

A humble child — no storied marble shines 
To mark his calm, sequestered resting place; 
No world's great singer pens his words of fire 
To spread this sleeping hero's praise; 
But humble hearts his heroism note, 
And humble singers sing their lays 
To honor him, while every one hears the tale 
Will in his heart some high memorial raise. 

The bravest warrior the world has ever known 
Could do no more, he gave his life to save 
His friend, with no great throng to nerve him 

on 
To noble deeds, he braved the turbid wave 
And found beneath the maddened cruel tide 
That knew no hero's worth, a hero's grave. 
"There lies a hero" bring out your wreath of 

bay 
And crown him there, the bravest of the 

brave. 

To Lambda Pi Chapter Sigma Alpha Epsilon. 



IT MUST BE TRUE 

• 

T T must be true that somewhere lies 
Beyond the reach of human eyes, 
A place where all our heartaches cease, 
Where all our restless souls find peace. 

It must be true that somewhere lies 

Beneath some fair eternal skies, 

A harbor where uncaptained wrecks, 
Will find a master on their decks. 

It must be true that somewhere lies, 
A land where sunlight never dies, 

Where on our blinded eyesight falls, 

A glory from celestial walls. 

To Mother Winslow. 



A COMPLAINT 

A S day from night bursts forth 

And swiftly burns, 
So man, from dark is born, 

And to dark returns. 

The day is yet half night, 

The full orbed day, 
A few short hours, then shades 

Make evening gray. 

We learn to live, and lo! 

'Tis time to die, 
The dawn and night too close 

Together lie. 



THE SHADOW SERVICE 

T N the gray old church when the twilight 

falls, 
* The shadows file in for prayers, 
And a phantom priest comes in from the dark, 
And stands on the altar stairs. 

The acolytes glide through misty doors, 

With censers in their hands, 
And a choir of echoes of songs once sung, 

In the shadowy choir-loft stands. 

The priest lifts up his wavering hands 
And blesses the kneeling throngs, 

While the phantom incense seems to rise 
And mingle with phantom songs. 

Then priest, and people, and acolytes troop, 

Adown the aisle to the door, 
And the dark comes in with a noiseless tread, 

When the service of shades is o'er. 



THE DANCE IS DONE 



THE dance is done, put out the lights, 
And muffle harp and violin, 

Forsake the house, put out the lights, 
And let the silent shadows in. 



The dance is done, the flowers dead, 
The laughter ended in a sob, 

The kisses silenced, the flowers dead, 
Amidst the echoed music's throb. 

The dance is done, the door is shut, 

The house all dark, the curtains drawn . 

Alas, alas, the door is shut 

And silence greets the livid dawn. 



Thirty 



